


Murder

by drarrylicious



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Draco-centered, F/M, Smut, angsty smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 21:32:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5681599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drarrylicious/pseuds/drarrylicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know the moment is close and you don’t tell her because you don’t want her to know. If you did she wouldn’t believe you and when she does it’d already happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Murder

**Author's Note:**

> Settled in Draco's sixth year, when he's struggling with the task he's been ordered by Voldemort.  
> I wrote this in spanish like five years ago, and the translation probably has errors, so I apologize in advance for that. However I'd like to hear your thoughts, thank you for reading!

**Murder**

You open your eyes cutting and sharply; and like in a spasm, you crumple the sheets that fall lightly over your body. You sink your head on the pillow and you budge, placing yourself side face to the bed, like if this action could set free the burden on your thorax. Your gaze focuses on that whitish wall, ruined by the humidity, and you feel claustrophobic in that dreadful castle.

 _That moment_ could befall in a month, a week, two days or in a couple of hours. That instant will reach you, it’s a certainty and you hate that it is because you remember it every second of your life.

You close your eyelids and you try to control your breath. You feel how her fingertips graze your shoulder, in a discrete caress, and it’s that more than anything what accomplishes to comfort you.

“Are you okay?”

During the seconds subsequent her voice continues to stretch as a whisper in your ear, however, you feel her voice cold, instant, like if an abyss lodged between the two sides of the bed. You nod your head, without turning around to show her your face, but she knows it’s a little white lie. Her fondles slid slowly to your naked back, and they trace invisible circles across it; you know she’s looking for the appropriate words to enounce and she can’t find them, after all, mornings always seize entirely the most uncomfortable moments.

You know that in any second she’ll leave the bed, take her clothes and leave you there; with that tightness on your chest and tremor in your lips; like she had done several times before. You think she’s going to do it as soon as she stops grazing subtle and with a disguised affection your skin, nonetheless, her lips kiss your hindhead, gently, almost without touching you, and the light hairs around it bristle. Those lips move again to the bend of your neck and she cradles her head there, her hairs touching you and her half naked body pressing to you through the sheets.

Her hand now caresses your belly, and you feel the entire physiognomy of her body against your spine, and without the necessity to look at her you can imagine every inch of her neck, of her breasts, of her belly bottom. Tired of getting absolutely no answer from your part, she takes your jaw with a hand and captures your mouth. You see the deception shining on her eyes, when your response to that kiss is weak, dreary, almost pathetic.

No, you’re not okay and you both know it; but she keeps kissing you willing to take off your lips that distressed tremor and without imagining the reason why. She forces you to turn around and your back ends up over the pillow, and before you can notice her legs confine your hips, her frizzles graze your face continuously, and with her half naked body she presses your chest without restrain.

You kiss her and you caress her back, your hands slip through her skin as silk, and it invades you a terrifying panic because any movement of your hands seemed capable to break her into a million pieces. You sit on the bed without daring to let go of her for a second. You kiss a beauty spot on her neck and lick around it, and you can almost hear the sound of her teeth scraping her lip.

You grab her hair and make her kiss you again, whilst your free hand takes care of unzipping her bra; she settles more on your hips and arches her back; you draw a grin, it pleases you when the anxiety consumes her. Her arm wraps your neck, and only then you realize that the reason why she searches for your touch is not a comfort but it is simply desire.

It is an obviousness, nonetheless it surprises you; you grasp her hair harder and turn her around,  placing her on the bed and landing your body above hers, this time without worrying about breaking her. You bite her neck and the first moan reaches feebly your ears, you thrust against her even through your underwear and she shakes under your arms, your hands roam the extension of her legs and she takes advantage of every friction to taste your lips.

Your lips close around the contour of her nipples; tasting what’s already tasted, discovering what’s already known. You visualize in your brain the expression you know it was drawn on her face in the precise moment you swamp your head between her legs; she desperately catches a bit of your hair, and you fall upon the certainty that you wish that the last thing you hear in this world is that guttural panting ripped off her vocal chords almost by force, that the last thing you want to see is her arched back and her legs girding heavily your head.

You fail to identify the moment in which you penetrate her, but you close your eyes and the claustrophobia infringes your body again, and your onslaughts become logy and fitful. That sensation of advanced sinfulness, that panic to failure but mostly panic to succeed. And a voice pounds on your temples, like an unceasing sinister sough.

_Murder. Murder. Murder._

“Don’t close your eyes.”

Her voice is like a halo of hope above your figure, you obey and you kiss her because that made the voice smothered out. She rests her head on the curve of your neck again, and from her throat emerge unintelligible sentences and your name tangled between them. You feel how her legs close tighter around you, you know she wishes you not to leave a molecule of air between your body and hers; you grasp her strongly and you bite her earlobe and she laughs in response.

You feel her inside tightening around your crotch; in these days she’s the only thing that achieves to comfort you even if it’s just a bit; and you press your cheek against hers as your breath breaks away and you can’t control. You narrow her between your arms strongly, almost expressing grief, she can tell but she doesn’t say a thing; although by now _you don’t know_ if she simply doesn’t care or if she even notices.

You close your eyes again when you speed up your lunges; she whispers a hoarse “Draco” in your ear, it scares you because that voice was heard too gothic and you start doubting it was genuinely her who pronounced it. Your heart gives a hard lop, your lunges are sharp, desperate, scared; she keeps moaning in your ear and you don’t know if you’re hurting her or not, you feel like shit about it, but your thorax stars compressing your guts and through your forehead run a few drops of sweat.

“Open your eyes. Look at me.” She asks you, almost begging, almost in a scream, almost like a slap on your face.

You sink on her chocolate hair, pervading of that vanilla smell; but the voice returns even more spectral, even closer, crying, shouting, sobbing.

_Murder. Murder. Murder._

Hermione abruptly takes your jaws, hurting you; she doesn’t know why you’re shaking and why those rapturous thrusts are so frightfully desperate, like if that was the last time you were between her legs making love to her; she can’t even imagine but she knows how to calm you; that’s why she kisses you and forces you to kiss her.

You found within her in that kiss, and bite her lips with distress; she comes in that instant and tightens your member even more. The orgasm starts to reach you since your knees, and like an ocean wave, finishes to overrun your body, and you pour into her in one last lunge, the most horrible, the most desperate, and the most beautiful. From your mouth escapes a moan, which is a moan but at the same time it’s not; it’s a cry, it’s a scream, it’s the climax of a voice which haunts you endlessly.

_Murder._

She frowns, while she observes your face distorted in a wince of pleasure by the orgasm but also of awe, and she wishes that expression never shows up again on your face, she wants to clean it like if it was a dirty spot on the window, but she knows that gesture is too horrid to not hide a story behind it, a story which she doesn’t take a part on and which she’s sure, you’d never let her in.

You slip off her and you throw yourself next to her, while she leans on an elbow and observes you, struggling between surprised and frightened. You don’t cry or sob again. You only worry on your breathing, it’s hard because your chest it kind of numb. She doesn’t say a thing and starts to get dressed. She stands by the door and, without kissing you (She never kisses you after she makes love to you); she watches you without even the slightest idea of what you’ll be doing that same day, in a couple of hours. You know the moment is close and you don’t tell her because you don’t want her to know. If you did she wouldn’t believe you and when she does it’d already happened.

Because she means too much and you mean too little. Because you’re sunken in a dark pit, and if she tries to save you, you’d only drag her too. Because in the path you chose, there’s no turning back, and there’s no place for risk, because that only works in romance novels. Because she’d never understand and you wish her not to, otherwise you wouldn’t love her so much. Because she couldn’t, even if she wanted to and even if she tried, to erase that wince from your face, because nobody could, not even yourself.

Because you’re sunken and with no exit, and that sinister voice is only the beginning of a life entirely packed of gothic whispers that seduce you about actions that, although you don’t want to believe it, you can’t accomplish. And you were going to pay it with your life. The cowardice costs you too much; you try to make a relief from knowing that, maybe, when she asks someone how you died, she’d feel proud of you. But she just closed the door without saying a word. Unable to completely calm your temblors. Probably without even caring. And that’s how you’re going to say goodbye. You know it and your spit had never tasted this bitter.

Because you’re incapable of murder and you’re fully aware of it.


End file.
